


THE PRETENDER

by lookingfordori



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Multi, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, THEY SUFFER, Violence, because im a bitch, bucky bottomed for pre-serum steve, but they also live, damaged characters, here we are, i don’t know how this works, i hate love triangles, i said what i said, oc is kind of a hitman, oc needs a hug too, probably, she MIGHT be immortal, so polyamory, who is going to stop me anyway, you’ll see when you read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-08 04:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14686779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingfordori/pseuds/lookingfordori
Summary: Once upon a deadly darkness, there was a heart-wrenching wail; so deafening, it swallowed the night, so broken, every mother wept. The wind blew with sorrow that day, the snow fell for an unfair death and the world, oh, the world, it shook with grief at the loss of one of its bravest soul.Once upon a night, Iphigénie Neemo lost everything





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> i am french, so if i did any spelling/grammar mistakes, blame it on emmanuel macron

THERE WAS A GIRL, AND SHE WAS BLESSED WITH LIFE.

 

AT THE TENDER AGE OF SEVEN, Iphigénie thought that being a hero didn't require much. For the girl whose head was filled with foolish dreams, it was always a matter of heart. She used to think being good was enough. 

  How painful; the realization that it wasn't, ever.

But, even when life had already taken her more than it should have, she kept on hoping. She clung to the idea that something greater was waiting for her; it had to be. She firmly believed that any action had its consequences, and she had been kind. 

Iphigénie was so damn kind she decided to save people's lives for a living, when she should have been focused on saving her own. 

It started simple; she joined la Police Nationale. By then, Iphigénie's softness had already wavered. She understood the world was not all white when her mother died; the first layers of reality begun to show themselves, and they were graphic. Adaa had been, since forever, Iphigénie's hero; not because she'd woke up in the middle of the night to answer a call from the office, nor for the way she'd sang her daughter to sleep every night. 

Adaa was a hero because she had a good heart. She would have ripped it from her chest to keep people safe, she'd have burn herself to ashes to keep people warm. But, all too soon, she was gone. A drunk driver had been enough to turn her into a memory.

  This was the moment Iphigénie discovered being a hero was not that simple; it was never something we were born with. It was all about choice. 

Kevin Jamison got out for a drink that night, and had one too many. Still, he chose to go home by himself, when he was clearly in no state to do so. Adaa Neemo was coming back from work that night, eager to see her children after a long day of solving crimes. Still, she chose to stop at a grocery store to buy Iphigénie her favorite sweets. If she hadn't, maybe she'd still be alive, and maybe, just maybe, if Kevin's friends had convinced him to stay away from the wheel, Iphigénie would still have a mother. 

A succession of choices made by two individuals led to this unfortunate meeting, where only one of them came out unscathed. 

Iphigénie decided the accident shouldn't stop her from being the person she had strived to be her entire life, it couldn't. So, she followed in her mother's steps, and became a cop. She took the decision at fifteen, enlisted when she was seventeen, spent twelve months practicing until she was able to take the final exam; by the time she was twenty, she had made her first arrest. 

Then, the violence came, and another shade of reality was revealed. 

INTERPOL took an interest in the young girl, and she found herself communicating with american agents when a criminal fled the country and was sighted in France. It didn't end well; her partner was killed and she had to put a bullet in someone's skull so she could live. 

Iphigénie found it hard to look at herself in the mirror after that incident. The worst thing was not the blood staining her hands, but the way her fingers had pulled the trigger so easily. 

From then on, Iphigénie had trouble sleeping at night. She asked herself if crimson stained dreams were the price a hero had to pay.

That day, she realized that even when one made the choice to be good, it didn't matter, because another could decide not to be. And then, then, when those two forces met,-- whether it'd be on a crossroad or in a safe house,-- there was no way to predict the outcome. 

Her superior, Arthur Neemo, forced her to take leave. He guessed his daughter was not in a good emotional state, and sent her home for a few weeks, so she could try and just breathe. It paid off; spending time with the most innocent soul on earth had its qualities. 

Her little brother, Ulysse, was always who she loved most. He was, for lack of better words, her home. He reminded her of her mother in some ways, and she saw a lot of her younger self in him, too. The little guy was always the optimist, his toothy grin could light up the whole world, his lame jokes would put a smile on anyone's face, and his heart, oh, his heart, he wore it on his sleeve; for everyone to see just how unafraid he was of the wickedness the world had tried to throw his way. 

Ulysse helped Iphigénie mend her wounds; whether they showed on her body, or were enclosed in her mind. He took care of her like her parents never could; he healed her broken bones, and beyond that, he made her anew. It was foolish; thinking she would forgot because a young boy had asked her to.

She did feel like her wrongs had been erased. But it didn't last. Iphigénie's soul was tarnished forever, and she didn't know how to fix it. 

So, she started to pretend. 

It was easier than she thought. The smile on her face was bright, but it was strained. Her  eyes shined, but it was because of the tears. Her hands were gentle, for she was afraid she'd hurt someone with them. Her skin was smooth, but almost as red as the blood she tried to scrub away under the shower. She walked with confidence, when all she wanted to do was run. 

At first, she pretended for honest reasons. For her brother, and her father. For the people who looked up to her because she was, somehow, "making a difference in the world." 

Making a difference, she had laughed, one corpse at a time. 

Still, she got back on her feet; she had to, for everyone else. She acted like everything was fine, just peachy. Sometimes along the way, she started to believe it too. 

But then, her father died. 

This time around, she wasn't the one who needed help. Ulysse did. 

He had already lost a mother he barely had time to know, and now it was a father he had grown to love. It hit the nine-year-old hard. The crying never stopped, and Iphigénie grew angry. Not at him, never at him, but at the world. It had taken so much from them. And she was tired of being conquered by bitterness. 

The siblings crossed the ocean to forget the misery. They found a new house to make new memories, and adopted a dog to have a friend. Louisiana treated them well for a while. 

She entered Quantico a summer when Ulysse was away at a scout camp in Missouri. Seventeen weeks of training, where she could exhaust the memories away. It was hard, but not as hard as giving up on the person she wanted to be. She had finally understood that bad things happened, sometimes for the greater good, sometimes for wickedness, sometimes for no reasons. 

  Seven-year-old Iphigénie would have been heartbroken, but the twenty-three-year-old girl found herself with an appeased mind. 

She hoped, though, that she could still help people; found answers to their questions to make them sleep better at night. She hoped she could still find goodness in her heart for even the undeserving, and some blue in her sky because it had been grey for too long. She hoped she could find peace with her crimson stained hands. She hoped. 

  On a cold night of December, the universe asked her: "how dare you?"

 

  THERE WAS A GIRL, AND SHE WAS CURSED WITH LIFE.


	2. WHAT IFS

WINTER WAS HERE. 

Snow fell silently on the world; covering every last ounce of cruelty with its immaculate white, giving a chance to even the undeserving to wipe their slates clean, burdened by the hope of something new. 

Now, more than ever, the holiday season seemed like the perfect opportunity to forgive oneself. Iphigénie wanted absolution; she needed it; from herself, to herself. Because, truly, she was the only one who still believed she wasn't worth it. 

You killed a man, they had told her, if you hadn't, you'd be dead, too.

It had been years since the fatal moment she realized she had to give up on her future self, the one she had built in her head. She was nostalgic; she missed the memories she could have made for herself, but never had the chance to; she missed the person she should have been, but never got the time to. 

But, winter was the bringer of new beginnings. 

Iphigénie was determined to let the past die, let it go without a glance back because, frankly, she was tired. The white noises in her head, the buzzing in her mind; it was keeping her from a good night sleep, and she was tired. So, she made the decision; forget and forgive. 

It seemed like the universe didn't agree. 

The twenty-fourth of December started like any other day. The girl had been working relentlessly on her case for a few months, and that day, she was a little too close to the truth for one's liking. She hadn't realized before, really, she hadn't realized, until the truth itself came into her home, uninvited. 

Forget and forgive wasn't made for her. 

She had been so close to have it all. Her little brother, Ulysse, was ecstatic about Christmas and the smile on his face was enough to know; everything was going to be alright. Her dog wasn't shitting on the floor anymore, which was an accomplishment in itself. She loved her job; she could pretend to be the good guy for a while, putting behind bars the devils of the world. So close. 

But, on her way home, she received a call. "We found it, Gen." 

It, how she would regret. 

"What do you mean?" Iphigénie asked, not sure she understood what the man implied. "We had nothing a few hours ago."

"I know!" he replied, excitement filling his voice, like he had just found the Holy Grail, "I know! What the f--, I can barely believe it. But it's right here. It's been here all along."

"Okay," she exhaled, "stop being so enigmatic. Tell me."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry! It's just--," her partner took a deep breath, and she wished she could have stopped the words about to come out of his mouth before they were just a thought. "Oh God! Okay. You remember how this guy we were interrogating just--, like, killed himself, right? Right. And when the results from the labo came, we started looking for whoever the hell could sell Cyanide pills to civilians. Right, right, so, turns out, nobody did because they were creating it themselves! And you may ask; who the fuck is them? Fucking Hydra."

"Wait," Iphigénie needed a second, or two, "who the hell is Hydra?"

"Ugh! Gen, come on! Have you ever paid attention in school?" Jones asked, and Iphigénie could almost see him run his hand down his face in desperation. 

"We were taught french history, not--," she frowned, still focused on the road ahead, "not whatever this is." 

"Okay. Long story short. Captain America? Does that ring a bell? Setting; world war two. He fought the Nazis. He defeated the Nazis, like--, this dude, like, all by himself."

She muttered something along the line of; "that sounds fake, but okay."

If only she had knew. 

Her friend ignored her comment, "The Nazis were, for the most part, Hydra. Actually, we don't talk about this in school because... because children, you know? And also," he hesitated, "the fact that it was a secret spy society with the plan to rule over the world."

Iphigénie stopped in her driveway, "Oh." The house was alive; the Christmas tree by the window was shining, her brother's shadow was dancing, and she could hear the dog barking happily. It put a smile on her face. 

Still, she should have known. 

"So, are you telling me that a secret agency, that was wiped out in world war two, is responsible for some shady twenty-first century assassinations? Hell, how do you even know about them? Secret spy society; sounds... secretive."

Without missing a beat, he answered; "The wonders of the Internet, Gen. Remember when we found this skull-octopus insignia thing-y? Well, I did some researches; a forum was talking about it."

"A forum? Really, Jones? Doesn't it seems a little sketchy? Even for you."

"But, listen. It was veterans talking, okay? And other... super nerdy kids, I guess."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Okay, okay. If what you're saying is true, your friend, Captain America, took care of them, right? So, what? A group of fanatics committing murder for old time's sake?"

"What about; a group of fanatics trying to recreate what has been lost? Even better; what if there was nothing lost to begin with? What if--, oh God! I need more coffee! What if they were always there. Because, listen, I've watched a shit-ton of action movies, okay? And it's always the same leitmotiv; bad guys working in the shadow for decades until the d-day. In real life, too. This Vladimir guy we cuffed to a radiator, remember? He worked on his evil plan for eight years, Gen! Eight years, for one guy! Imagine how much time it would take to plan a re-do of their mistakes! A hell of a lot."

"So, what it is, Jones? You want us to take our questionable evidence to Katarina, and tell her that we discovered the remains of a hundred years old spy agency? Fine, that can work. And then, what? We tell her our suspicions are based on an intuition? Because, let's be real for a second here, all we have is a pile of dead bodies, a cyanide pills and this octopus thing. Oh! And the words of prepubescent teenagers and traumatized old guys! Great! It's--, it's not happening, Jones. I'm sorry but we need... we need more than that."

"Okay. Yeah, I hear you, just--, please, sleep on it? Think about it."

She was silent for a moment, "I will." She wouldn't, because it was ridiculous. 

Jones sighed in relief, no doubt, "Hey, Gen?"

"Mh?"

"Merry Christmas!"

"Thanks, Jones. You too. Say hi to Sarah for me."

 

 

"I hope you got me something expensive."

"Open it, Ulysse."

"I can? But it's Christmas Eve! Le réveillon, Gen!"

"Who cares? Open it."

Jones' call was miles away from her mind. Tonight, she felt good. Ulysse had the power to make her forget about the world's misery, and she wasn't about to crush her moment of peace for words that made so little sense. 

"Two tickets for the Stark Expo? Gen!" before she had the time to blink, his arms were around Iphigénie's neck, "Merci! Merci! Merci!" 

His laugh made her feel warm inside; like her broken heart was mending itself, like he was the only medicine she needed. In moments like this, she fully realized how different she'd be if he wasn't in her life. She felt alone most of the time, but she was never lonely, and that was because of him. 

Iphigénie could have been an entirely different version of herself; the bitter, blinded by rage and utterly miserable version. She was thankful for Ulysse; for the hugs, the smiles, the joy. It made her feel like she could breathe, like her lungs weren't burdened by the heavy weight resting on her shoulders. 

As she watched him running around the room, screaming "Iron man! Iron man!" like a mantra, she felt like the luckiest person on earth. 

But she should have known. All the good things in her life; they turn to dust. 

 

 

The next morning, she got a call. 

There wasn't much words exchanged, just a final "it's Jones" and painful truths. 

She kissed a sleeping Ulysse goodbye. 

When Iphigénie arrived at the scene, a body was already out of the house, a white sheet covering their entire being. She didn't have to look under it to know, but she did anyway, to be sure. Blonde hair, pouty lips, a beauty spot under an eye. Sarah. 

Jones' Sarah. Kind Sarah. Teacher Sarah. Very much pregnant Sarah. Her friend, Sarah. 

Iphigénie looked down as tears filled her eyes. "Fuck," she muttered angrily. "fuck, fuck, fuck.". 

Her knees were weak, and she felt herself wavered. Vomit was in the back of her throat, and she wanted to choke on it. Her eyes were burning, and her hands were shaking and, and, Sarah was dead. 

When she turned around, Iphigénie was faced with the solemn look on her superior's face. "Neemo," Katarina acknowledged her, "I'm sorry."

But Iphigénie wasn't about to take fucking condoleances. She had heard too much of them already.

"What do we have?" she approached the woman, determination written on her face. 

"The most likely scenario is a robbery gone wrong."

She didn't believe it. "Burglar are not murderers."

"Anyone with a gun can be a murderer, Iphigénie. But, this is not the question. You shouldn't be here."

"What? Of course I should be here. I can help. Let me help."

With finality, Katarina shook her head, and her words felt like a punch to the guts, "You're too emotionally invested."

"I--, what? Aren't we all? He was our friend. They both were."

"I'm sorry."

Iphigénie snorted, "Yeah, you said that already."

"Neemo, should I remind you that you have yet to become an official? You're still in training, and I'm your superior officer. When I tell you you can't do something, you listen."

Iphigénie was about to respond, because truly, she had enough. Enough of people dying, enough of watching everyone she loved go, enough to be the one still standing while everyone else was butchered. She had enough for a lifetime. 

She opened her mouth, but a second stretcher was wheeled out of the house. 

 

 

She spent the rest of the day at the office, looking into Jones' stuff. There was a picture of Sarah, and another of Iphigénie, Ulysse and the dog stuck in the corner of his computer screen. 

She was, once again, left with unanswered questions. Why? was the most persistent. Why these two innocents? Why life was so adamant on taking and never, ever, giving back? Why? Why?

She wondered if there was some kind of logic into it; maybe, if you were too good, you'd be taken away because the world; it was a terrible place for kind people. But why would it have to be in such a brutal way? 

Maybe good people had to suffer most, because the world, no matter what it did, could never take their kindness away from them. And the world was angry. 

At the end of the day, Iphigénie got home with a box full of souvenirs. But, for the first time in her life, it wasn't hers. Pictures, USB key, half-written anniversary note, phones numbers, personal diary; the remains of a man who wanted to live. 

That was the worst part of it. Jones was so full of life; he was one of those people who seemed immortal, a sort of celestial being sent from above. In the end, he returned there, because he was always meant for the sky. 

Iphigénie couldn't help it. For unfathomable reasons that went beyond her, she blamed herself. What could have I done to prevent this? The what ifs were endless. What if she had invited them over for Christmas Eve like Ulysse had asked her to? What if they had gone to Sarah's parents like they were supposed to? The what ifs were killing her. 

What if she had been more focused on her surroundings instead of thinking about dead people? What if she had seen the van parked down on her street? What if she had noticed the lights in her home were turned off? What if she had given a thought to Jones' theory?

   What if she lived?


	3. EMPTY VESSEL

   THE NIGHT WAS COLD.

The icy breeze was winding its way around Iphigénie's body, her soft skin stung by its invisible thorns, like a reminder; you're alive, you're alive, but for how long?

  Her mind was elsewhere; deeply affected by a loss she couldn't have predicted, it was searching for a way to repair, replace; working as fast as it could to collect the remains of how it used to be, putting them in a place only she could reach. 

  Iphigénie's brain was working on its own, and she felt numb. The steps she took seemed automated, as if her body wasn't her own. Her feet sunk into the snow; it almost felt like the ground wanted to swallow her, stop her from moving closer,-- if she had known what the future was made of, she would have thought the earth was trying to warn her. 

  The person you want to be,  it was saying,  it's going to kill her!

But the girl who believed in new beginnings was about to get her own.

  Iphigénie waited so long for a sign; something that would yell at her to get things done, something that would tell her what she have to do in this life. An answer to the question; who have I become? 

Was she something else than a murderer? Was there anything else that mattered, other than this young girl,-- vessel of an uncanny existence and carrier of life itself,-- who deprived someone from the only thing they truly needed. Iphigénie played God, and fate decided she had to pay. 

  She opened the front door; by the time it had closed behind her, the girl's head was slammed against a wall, and everything looked blurry. 

  No shining in the shadow, only a poisonous darkness that made the light hard to remember. 

A hand came behind her neck, and a force she hadn't been prepared to be assaulted with dragged her to the kitchen; first room the the right, shelter to many things with the ability to pierce skin, and home to too many lethal angles than what Iphigénie was comfortable with.

  The marble counter seemed to the liking of the attacker, and they threw her towards it harshly; her abdomen collided with the table. A grunt came out of her mouth, her tongue tasted like blood. Before she could even try to analyze the situation, before her vision could become clear once more, and before her brain had time reconnecting some faulty circuits between her head and her hands, her skull hit the counter twice. 

  There wasn't much to be said, but the man couldn't resist. "Your friend begged me." The glint of something terrible was in his eyes; he played God too, thinking foolishly he could decide, and take. In reality, he was an executioner, nothing more than a means to an end; the messenger of death. "Are you going to beg?"

  His figure was darkened by the glow coming from the window; it looked like the light had came in waves at his back, to no avail; it grazed all his silhouette from behind, obscuring a face made for nightmares and a truth meant for oblivion; making the monster under the bed look sympathetic. 

  Truth be told, Iphigénie didn't think she could handle another blow to the head; she felt dizzy, her throat was dry, and her entire body hurt. Still, she tried; because her brother was somewhere in the house, and her dog, too. The Goddamn dog!

  She barely had time to breath before he grabbed her coat in a fist and pulled her up like she weighted nothing. The menace hummed, a deep sound coming from the emptiest part of him,  echoing endlessly between the walls of her mind. "Blood will do." 

  A well placed blow at the knee was all Iphigénie could think of. A two-handed punch following close behind; the force she could muster in her linked limbs made him stumble. There was a small distance separating the two now, and they were too occupied assessing the other to make the leap, so fate did. 

  The smallest voice sounded from across the room, "Gen?" 

Something took over her before she had even realized what it meant. Her left hand reached for the door of the top cupboard, opening it violently so it could damage as much as possible. The man was disoriented for a moment, so Iphigénie grabbed the back if his neck and drove his face into the door, again and again and again. 

  His nose was a bloody mess when she let go of him. Wood splinters were decorating his skin; the small door looked almost as bad as him. Droplets of blood were shining darkly on his silky skin, and Iphigénie could have swore she had never seen a color so intense in essence and in violence. 

  The devil groaned, a pained and guttural sound that send shivers down the girl's spine. She stepped back cautiously;  her eyes never leaving the attacker while her hands were reaching for something, anything that could provide her with an escape route. 

  When she found it, she striked: a plate made of metal; heavy thing, sharp edges, and an underappreciated weapon of choice. Iphigénie aimed for the throat; hoping to paint a crimson gash where the skin was thin. 

She had one thing in mind; end this unnecessarily violent encounter. All these things she hated herself for; it was casted away, locked behind closed doors. In this moment, there was no cop trying to be the bigger person, no girl with a golden heart, no guilt, no shame. In that instant, there was just a monster with destructive hunger and a man in black. 

The metallic item hit his chin, but he retaliated without so much of a pause, hard. His closed fist touched too many bones in too little time. Sickening cracks were heard and she prayed, to anyone who'd listen, to make it stop. Please, make it stop. 

  "Gen!" the voice cried again; "What can I do?"

  When she could breathe again, the girl dodged a painful blow at her ribs, took a hold of an arm way too big for her bony hands, and used her legs to break. Knee, tight, crotch. Anything she could hurt, she would. 

  "Ulysse!" she finally acknowledged, turning to the shadow where she was sure her little brother was hiding. "Dégage de là! Maintenant!" 

The next thing she heard turned her blood cold; a simple click announcing the safety of a gun was off. Iphigénie was in plain sight and her brother not far enough. She turned around and was faced with the barrel of what looked like a Glock 17. 

  Is this how it ends? she asked herself. And now, she almost wished it had been. 

  But the guy was too close, which gave her room to grab the weapon as his finger pulled the trigger. 

The first bullet hit the ceiling. The second ended up in the wall. The third met skin. But not hers. 

  Her ears were ringing; a never-ending buzzing in her already damaged head. Her body hurt; like every bones had been broken, and then, put back together just so they could be broken again, in the most painful way. Her vision was swirling, and the room swayed. 

  The girl couldn't think, her thoughts were cut in half; she had the beginning of an idea or its end, but never the in-between. She felt cut in half; she could almost feel the concussion. Her hands, her legs, her feet; nothing responded when it needed to and the thought that it was going to get her killed was the only thing clear, crystal. 

  With her mind at war with itself; she didn't realize.

  The man was still standing tall, and Iphigénie's limbs were out of her control. There was nothing she could do when he shot her in the chest, twice. 

  The next second, she was on the ground, in a pool of her own blood, but she was alive. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the head damages, but she didn't feel as much pain as she should have for such lethal wounds. 

  She understood it was the end, but somehow, she still had a fight in her. 

  The man let go of the gun, and thumbed a knife holstered on his tight. The devious smile on his face made her want to throw up, and his words almost succeeded in doing so; "You brave, brave girl. Ever heard of giving up?"

  She couldn't talk because there was blood in her mouth, she couldn't move because her body was punctured in vital places, she couldn't breathe because it was too agonizing. 

  He laughed darkly, unsheathed his blade and sat on her abdomen. "Any last words?" he said, tracing the edge of his dagger down her throat. 

   "Je te tuerai," Iphigénie whispered, "je te tuerai," she repeated, like a prayer, or a promise. 

    "Maybe in another life." 

  With the last ounce of strength she could muster, her hands stopped the blade millimeters away from the fragile skin of her neck. It was useless, and making things more tortuous than they had to, but she did it regardless. Her epidermis was turning red, the liquid flowing down her arms like rain on a window.

  She wondered, absent minded, how many liters of blood were running through her veins. Iphigénie knew the answer, but she was painfully aware that she had lost so much of it, too much, for her body to still function as it did. 

   The man gave the weapon up all at once. The girl looked at it, dumbfounded. The sharp edges were embedded firmly in her hands, reaching bones she didn't know were there. She was too occupied looking at the gruesome sight to notice the man reaching for her windpipe with his own murderous hands. 

   And he crushed it.

 

 

The first thing she remembered was pain. Funny, she thought, pain should never be a souvenir.

Iphigénie's entire being was sore; like it had been beaten to death, broken in and out, invaded by the unknown, touched by the cold fingers of annihilation, killed with the cold truth of life. But then, she recalled; it had. It had. 

When the memories of bullets entering skin came to her mind; she coughed. Had she lost the ability to breathe? Did she remember how to do it? How was she still alive? She didn't know. She didn't know, and she couldn't breathe. 

Her bloodied hands went to her chest and she sobbed. The girl stayed on the ground, lying in a puddle of clotted blood, tears streaming through bruises and aching skin, limbs heavier than the world. 

Iphigénie was in agony and she wished it would end. 

The smallest movement made her hurt; her head was pounding, her throat burned like the fire of Hell, her hands were nothing more than gaping holes and ripped skin, her ribs felt dissevered from her skeleton, and her chest was punctured with steel. 

For a moment, she thought physical pain was the worst kind of suffering, because nothing she had ever experienced before could come close to that. 

But then, then, there was a whimper. 

Her brown eyes searched for the origin of the sound; they landed on the dog. His fur was colored crimson but Iphigénie knew it wasn't his. She just knew. 

"No," she started pushing herself up from the floor, "no, no, no." It took too long, so she crawled; pain almost forgotten, but still here, like the reminder of the things she should have done. 

Iphigénie reached the hound, loyally staying at his master's side. His head was on a small chest; too small to be the receiver of such a cruel fate. "Ulysse."

She didn't understand right away, she couldn't. 

The body was cold. There was blood at the edge of his mouth. And a hole in his stomach. The third bullet, it was here; rooted in a soul that would never bloom, planted in a body who could not grow flowers anymore. 

Her little brother had turned into a corpse; an empty vessel, carrier of death. No more life, no more joy, just sorrow and pain. Pain, pain, pain!

It was everywhere; surrounding her every cells, embracing her spirit, whispering sweet nothing into her ears, turning her into an entity no man could name.

She looked at him, or what used to be him, and she exploded. 

Once upon a deadly darkness, there was a heart-wrenching wail; so deafening, it swallowed the night, so broken, every mother wept. The wind blew with sorrow that day, the snow fell for an unfair death and the world, oh, the world, it shook with grief at the loss of one of its bravest soul. 

Once upon a night, Iphigénie Neemo lost everything.


	4. ONE MAN

FOR AS LONG AS IPHIGÉNIE COULD REMEMBER, time always had healing virtues. When life took her what she thought was everything, the girl waited until the pain vanished. Her mother, her father, her partner, her innocence; those are the things she thought she couldn't live without, but each time, she succeeded. 

  She pretended she could, so she did. As excruciating as it was, she did. 

But now, on the floor of what could have been her forever home, she wasn't so sure. Now, with the lifeless body of the person she loved most in her arms, she wasn't sure of anything. 

  The pain was far away, like a vague memory, something she knew was there but couldn't quite place. Iphigénie was numb; body and soul, taken over by the humming of grief. 

  It'd been hours, and she hadn't let go of the small corpse.  She clung to it like a lifeline, as she never did when he was alive. 

  When he was alive. What a terrible thing to think. 

  She had cried when her blood tarnished his immaculate face a scarlet color, and she had wept when she grasped that he would never told her off for it. 

  She was rocking back and forth, her brother's head on her wrecked chest, the dog resting his muzzle on her tight. The girl and the hound were mourning silently, finding comfort in each other's presence. In some ways, they were the only things left of Ulysse. His sister and his best friend, who both had nothing but him. 

  Iphigénie stayed in this position for hours, maybe days. She couldn't tell; time seemed like an overused concept which didn't apply to everyone, and certainly not her, not anymore. When the initial shock passed, she cried again. 

  She cried, and she cried, and she cried. Until there were no tears left to cry. 

  Then, she wondered what she should do. Call the cops? No, no way. I am the cop. The girl couldn't help but think about her superior officer; "you're too emotionally involved" she had told her when her partner was murdered in cold blood. Katarina would tell her the same thing right now, and would take the case away from her, preventing her from avenging this oh so unfair death.

  Because that was what she wanted; revenge. She had seen his face and the wicked satisfaction in his eyes when his hands enveloped her throat, she had seen the way his grin widened when she tried to fight for her life, she had seen it all, and Iphigénie wanted him to pay. 

She wanted him to hurt, she wanted him to cry, she wanted him dead. She wanted to see life being taken away from his grasp, she needed to see him suffer, and she was going to be the one to do it. 

  Here and there, Iphigénie Neemo made the most unreasonable choice; it would cost what was left of her, she knew it, but she didn't care. 

  She had been kind for too long; and had been rewarded only with loss. The girl had enough. 

  Who is going to stop me, anyway? 

The decision was an easy one; suddenly, everything seemed to make sense. That was her sign, her new beginning, what she had become. The answer to all her questions was there; half of it dead in her arms, and the other part coming out of its hiding place in her head.

  Truth be told, her mind had been plagued with the knowledge of her destiny for a long time, but she always pretended she didn't know. Since the day she killed someone; the way it had been so easy, the guilt of not feeling guilty, the shame of not being ashamed; since then, she knew. 

  But before, her little brother had been there to prevent her from achieving the only thing she was good at. He was the one to lull her back to sleep when her dreams were tormented by the unsaid words that had died at her lips. He was the one making up stories with happy endings because, somehow, he knew she'd never get her own. He was the one who smiled when she couldn't. He was so much at once. 

  But now, he simply wasn't. And Iphigénie was left alone with the demons living in her head, poisoning her every thought like the most venomous flower. 

  She made a decision; an unbearable one. Bury the little corpse in the backyard. 

  It was hard to dig into the cold ground; covered by the same unsullied snow she had seen the morning before, the very same pristine color that had made her feel for the undeserving. She was one of them and knew now; forgiveness was a lie, nothing more than a tale, a story uttered to children in the dark of the night to make them believe the light would come back with the sun. 

   Even with a mutilated body, she dug. Her injured limbs were throbbing, like her heart was in the palm of her hands, beating wildly as a reminder; you're alive, you're alive, but is it worth it? 

  Her seven-year-old self used to think that the heart was the place every good intentions came from; how foolish she had been. It was nothing more than an organ; pumping blood, pumping life. The head was the catalyzer; and no matter how much you wanted to be something, sometimes you just couldn't. 

  Iphigénie put the remains of her past into the ground, covering it in soil and clay and tears. 

  The girl was so profoundly wounded, so diligently mourning that when she threw up beside this hideous grave, she didn't notice the bullets falling out of her mouth. 

 

 

   Days passed, and Iphigénie quitted her job. 

   She healed her battered body at the best of her abilities, which were not much. With her mind focused on an entirely different matter, she didn't notice how the lacerations covering her whole being turned to scratches faster than they should have. She didn't see that two slugs were missing from her chest. And she certainly didn't detect her windpipe putting itself back together. 

   No, Iphigénie's priority was to find the man who extracted her heart from her ribcage, and forced her to bury it with her bare hands. The man who had left lot of blood and broken things behind. 

  One man. Not an army; just one man. 

  It distracted her, though. So much, in fact, that she didn't give consideration to Jones' USB key lying on her floor since that dreadful night. 

   The only thing she cleaned since then was the dog. The girl discovered some of the blood on his fur was his; he had been hurt, pierced by an angry blade or a lost bullet. It angered her even more. 

  She called Ulysse's school and told them a family trip was on its way, so he wouldn't be attending for a while. The teacher was happy, said that the boy never stopped talking about his big sister and how much he looked up to her. Iphigénie had hung up immediately, not liking the feeling in her throat; like it was being strangled from the inside. 

  Later on, she found out she still had access to INTERPOL's international criminal database, and made some researches. It took time, but she knew her way around the network. In a few weeks time, she had a name. And after thirty-six days, Iphigénie knew exactly where she would find the guy. 

   Not matter how much she wanted to, she didn't rush things. Ivan Vok had beaten her senseless, leaving a broken and bruised soul in his wake. In truth, she hadn't been prepared; it was as simple as that. When she saw her reflection on the bathroom mirror, bloodied and swollen, she vowed to never be taken by surprise again. 

  Never again. Never again. Never again. 

It was the mantra she sung to herself while preparing for this war she had been thrown into, forcefully. There was not much she could do if she wasn't trained properly; so the the girl turned herself into a weapon. 

  One day, she decided her calloused hands were ready to fight the battle she had won over and over again in her head. Every detail had been thought through, hundreds of outcomes were examined by her murderous mind; she was dead in all of them, but also victorious. Iphigénie didn't care much for her life, all she wanted was Ivan Vok's last words to be pleading, she craved to hear him beg. 

  And if she had to die for it, so be it.


	5. THORNS

THE DARKNESS WAS SUFFOCATING. 

  Iphigénie Neemo had become a shadow; the distant obscurity of who she used to be, the  silent follower of twilight. She was a puzzle never to be completed, an enigma no riddle could match. She was a lethal weapon; one only herself could wield. 

   She blended in the night, perfectly. A tragic aura enveloped her, an unilluminated energy, the gloomy atmosphere gothic novels were about; if one looked close enough, they would see the black mist emanating from her core; what was it? Her soul? Others just needed to look in her eyes to know; this girl was out for blood. 

    It had been months since everything she cherished was stolen from her, and Iphigénie was finally ready to strike back. It was going to be brutal and bloody and she couldn't wait. Ivan Vok's destiny was coming for him, and it was about to create chaos. 

  He was hidden in a safe house with people just like him; murderers. At least, that's what Iphigénie assumed. She didn't have the luxury to think otherwise, so they would all taste the bitter edge of her blade. 

  Tonight was the night she had been preparing herself for. The girl relished in the fact he had no idea it was his last moments, and she would make sure to inflict the pain of a thousand deaths. 

  It was Judgement day, and Ivan Vok had sinned.

Two men were guarding the hideout, talking among themselves, oblivious to the deadly threat coming their way. It was fast, almost elegant; executed with the grace of a ballerina. The bodies fell to the ground, unheard by the horde inside. Clean punctures at the back of their skulls; dead without even realizing. 

   Iphigénie searched them, stole their guns, and made her dramatic entrance. 

The first person in her sight tasted the destructive wrath of her madness; a bullet in the hand trying to reach for a Glock, another silencing the ensuing scream. 

  It felt like an out out of body experience, as if she could see everything from above, perched on her throne of thorns. In that moment, she was an observer; but the voyeur of such brutals feats, the witness of this ruinous havoc; they should not come out of it unscathed. 

  Their mind would be wailing at the sight of so much blood, and their heart, oh, their heart, it should be torn apart, rendered inept, its broken pieces scattered around the room where anyone could decide to walk all over them. 

But somehow, Iphigénie was left emotionless. She didn't tremble when crimson stains spilled on her skin, she didn't blink at the crack of someone's neck. It was simple, almost methodical. 

  The bodies were piling up on the floor, and the remaining men became hesitant. 

Her skin looked like melted bronze; drop of red added to the painting here and there, scars sculpted with surgical precision, but the look in her eyes. 

  It was something somber, something like the end. Her once warm brown eyes had turned cold, as well as her blood. A long time ago, she had looked like joy; she was the sun and the moon combined, a peculiar star in the skies above us, illuminating everyone beneath. Her glow had brought people safety, love, warmth. But everything dies, everything fades, everything ends, and tonight, she looked like death. 

   The Reaper had come to claim her dues. 

  The place turned into a slaughterhouse; these men were doomed, cursed to be the spectators of their own fall. Iphigénie was a monster; she had accepted it. The hunger inside her was unleashed, uncontrollable, haunting. But she didn't care, she didn't care at all. 

   When the six beasts were down, she looked around. It was a massacre; some of them were drowning in their own blood, choking, betrayed by what was supposed to keep them alive. Others were staring into the void; extinguished was the light in their eyes, melted was the candle of their lives. 

  Then she saw him. Crouched into a corner, wide eyed, and looking absolutely terrified. "You," he stuttered, holding his side, "I killed you."

   Seeing him on the ground, skin white as sheet and splutters of red at the corner of his lips; he didn't look like a menace anymore. Just a man on his deathbed. It filled Iphigénie with something close to delight. 

  The girl found an abandoned rope, a chair and the perfect spot. Ivan Vok's eyes followed her every movement; there was a resolut look on his face, like he knew. And she hated it; she loathed that he was at peace with his fate, that he was ready. Because Ulysse never got this chance. 

He grunted when she took a hold of his hair and dragged him to his execution place. He mumbled something when she tied the rope around his neck and pointed to the chair. He stumbled when she fastened the end of the cord to a pillar. And when she finally turned toward him, he whimpered. "I killed you."

  Iphigénie breathed in, "I wish you had," she said, because it was true. Since the twenty-fifth of December, Iphigénie was painfully reminded, every single day, that Ivan Vok had walked into her domicile, unbidden, and had taken away what made it a home. 

  She would have prefered never waking up, so she could be with the people she loved one last time. 

She looked at him, took him in; he had laughed in the face of death, had stolen everything that made her who she was, the man who had patted himself on the shoulder for the murder of a child. She was going to erase him, permanently, like he was simply a bug in the system, a fault in the code. 

  The girl put a foot at the edge of the chair, "Any last words?" she asked, just as he did that night. 

  His hands were fumbling at his neck, trying to loosen the rope, in vain. "It was an order," he started, staring at her the same way someone would look at a miracle; unbelieving and mortified, "kill Travis Jones and Iphigénie Neemo." 

  The girl tilted her head to the side, her face the image of passivity, while her eyes were alight with something akin to uncontained fury, "Who gave the order?"

  With absent-minded movement, Ivan explained, "The wife and the kid, they were just--, they were casualties." Bobbing head, hunched shoulders, shaking legs. 

   "Who," Iphigénie repeated, her patience thinning, "gave the order?"

   Then, he started sobbing. Crocodile tears ran down his face, his mouth forming half words and his hands resolutely holding on the rope. "I killed you." 

  The girl sighed, long and slow, and when she closed her eyelids, she saw her brother's blood; viscous, spreading through her fingers like Holy water. She had enough, "Alright," the sound of the chair scraping against the floor echoed around the room, "I'll figure it out myself."

  She watched as life was ripped from him. Ivan Vok struggled during long minutes against the cord preventing oxygen to enter his lungs, he suffered until his body gave up on him, and Iphigénie didn't feel any better. In fact, she didn't feel anything. 

She had looked death in the eye and it didn't change a damn thing. Ulysse was still gone, her partner, Sarah too. But Iphigénie was still here, and she didn't know why. 

  The darkness was suffocating, because it had branded her.

 

 

She rummaged through the room, on a hunt for clues. Who gave the order? Iphigénie searched the bodies, the abandoned duffle bags; nothing. Who gave the order? There was a map on a wobbly table, red circles traced around the D.C arena. Who gave the order?

A lifetime ago, she had been a cop, so she knew these marks were indications of an imminent attack, the precise point where they would strike. But why? 'Triskelion' was written in big scarlet letters, and she had no idea what it was. 

Iphigénie should have learned her American history better. 

She was so focused on her work that she didn't hear anything. At the same moment she found a familiar insignia on the floor, looking like it was waiting for her, mocking her, the door busted open. 

Iphigénie was soon surrounded by a dozen of heavily armed men, and just as much rifles' barrels pointed at her. They looked around; confused about the carnage, wondering if this girl alone could have been the perpetrator of such a violent act. 

"Rumlow," one of them said, and a deadly looking man glanced away from the bloodied girl. 

He tipped his chin, "Call him."

Everything was a blur, like the concussion was back. In truth, Iphigénie had just realized why. She hadn't believed Jones when he told her, she hadn't even took his theory into consideration. But the octopus insignia. It was like something snapped into her brain, her mind was too busy analyzing the things she had been too blind to see to realize her hands were being tied behind her back. 

It made sense. It made so much sense. How had Jones called it? Captain America. Secret spy society. Nazis. 

Hydra. 

Iphigénie was placed on a chair, guns aimed at her crown. She was staring into nothingness; the black hole that her life had become, it was sucking her in its vacuum, making everything disappear into the void of oblivion. 

Oedipus sank pins through his eyes for being so blind to the truth, and now, now, Iphigénie wanted to do the same, for she had been unseeing, rendered sightless by her rage and her commitment to avenge. 

But, would things be different if she had known sooner? If she had believed Jones and decided to get back to the office instead of going home, would he still be alive? If she had realized the threat it posed, maybe Ulysse would still have a toothy grin and a beating heart. 

The what ifs were back, and once again, they hurt.

  She didn't notice when a man entered the safe house like he owned the place, like he owned earth itself. But he stopped before her, hunched over, hands on knees, suit and tie cleansed of good intentions, and when he smiled at her, it looked like he was baring his teeth; as a show of aggression, leadership, power. In this scenario, he was the hunter and Iphigénie was the prey. 

She understood it immediately, and kept her mouth shut when his eyes traveled down her throat, burned holes in the skin of her chest before coming back to hers. "Interesting," he hummed. 

  He was an odd combination of lethal elegance and gentle hostility. He had the face of a father, but the voice of the devil. His words, though, they were unexpected, "Would you please untie her," he asked, sounding like he wasn't asking at all, "we're not barbarians." 

  The next second, Iphigénie's hands were freed, and her brows furrowed. Pools of ebony filled with unshed tears; maybe it was sadness, deception, rage. It didn't matter, because they would never fall. 

  A chair was brought to the man. "I have to say," he started, making himself comfortable, "it was a big thorn you removed from my side just now."

  They were assessing each other, waiting to see if one would bounce and tear through skin, scratch with vicious nails, rip some ribs with their bare hands. When none of it happened, he sighed, almost disappointed, "What's your name?"

  Iphigénie's shoulder blades moved uncomfortably against the plastic chair. She bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain. Why was she still alive? Thinking that, she realized it was a recurring question; one she never get the answer to, no matter how much she wanted to. 

  Saying the man was on her side would be delusional, but it seemed like they had a common enemy. Only a fool would think him trustworthy, but did she have a choice?

  When she didn't respond, he glanced behind her. All of sudden, the place was colder than she remembered. Quieter, too. The only sounds were the echoes of steps; heavy, disgracious, annunciator of something terrible, immuable. 

  The icy end of a gun was against her temple, and when her eyes turned to look at her soon-to-be executioner, air got stuck in her throat. 

  The first thing she saw was a hand; massive, deadly, metallic hand. The arm it belonged to was huge, and she had no doubt it would crush her bones without asking for permission to its owner first. But when she looked at the face, dear God, the face, she couldn't even tell if it was human. 

There was nothing there. Pale skin, dead eyes. No night sky scattered over their nose, no brightness in the blue ocean. Nothing. Someone dead, but still standing. A walking corpse.

"What's your name?" the man asked again.

The girl gulped, turning her attention back to him, and when she whispered her name, it felt like she had confessed. 

He smiled lightly; he had won without even trying. "Miss Neemo," he stated, "I'm sure you understand what you did today is a crime punishable by the death penalty."

Iphigénie nodded. She cared little for death, but if she wasn't cooperative, she was certain she wouldn't be handed to the authorities, and would be dealt with here instead, in the most atrocious way. She was tired of pain. 

He seemed to read her mind, "I'll make you a deal," he offered, a knowing glint in his eyes, "take out the rest of the trash. In exchange, I'll forget about this little incident, and nobody will ever know."

Iphigénie wanted to scream, to cry, to run away. She fisted her hand around the arm of the chair, hoping foolishly it would break a bone. She was tired of the pain, but it seemed like the pain was never tired of her. "Who are you?"

Once again, the man smiled, like he knew the secrets of the universe. But there was something venomous there, something absolutely revolting that made Iphigénie's blood boil. 

"My name is Alexander Pierce."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter of what we could call "act one" my bitches

THE NIGHT WAS COMING TO AN END, and the world was engulfed in stillness. A suffocating silence had taken roots on Earth, blossoming like a deadly flower. But the minds of its occupants, oh, the minds, they were howling. 

The only thing Iphigénie could truly hear was her beating heart. Tump. Tump. Tump. She was alive; was it a miracle, or something worse? There was foreboding flowing through her veins; something wicked was coming her way; and the silence, it was her most loyal companion, her only friend on this ghost ship where the phantoms of a past she wished to sooth were screaming; mutiny, it was like a mutiny in her own body. 

Alexander Pierce had told her to finish what she had started, so she could be free. Iphigénie felt like she knew exactly what freedom meant for such a heartless beast, and she was at peace with her fate. 

Finally, she thought, I will be with my family again. 

But, had she ever got anything she wanted?

The universe had taken a liking to conspire against her; if the girl got a taste of the sun, it would burn her to the bone, turn what could have been a masterpiece into a half finished painting. Like Icarus, if she was gifted wings, they would melt and she would be cursed to be the witness of her own fall, sinking into the depth of an ocean who loathed the thought of her. The stars would crash, blazing, murderous, if she ever thought about being happy in this body she was doomed to be a imprisoned in. 

The universe hated her, but it was nothing new. 

What was unfamiliar, though, was the weapon she carried. My most prized possession, Alexander Pierce had said, ordinarily, I would send it alone, he had added, but it likes its mess and I just can't afford it today. 

He had called him a 'it', but it was a man. Or the vestige of one. Remains of the person he used to be; same hair, same skin, same bones. Inside, though, it was empty. If the eyes were truly a window to the soul, this individual had been robbed of his. 

Looking at this shadow of a man, Iphigénie thought that, all things considered, she could have it worse. No matter how much had been taken from her, she still had something inside; it was small and dark, but it was there. 

"Target in sight," she announced from her position on the roof, sniper rifle in hands, half man by her side. Her curiosity was burning bright, and she was grateful. The pain was put into the corner of her mind; her attention was redirected towards the phantom instead of the misery. 

The job was an easy one; kill from afar. The menace on her right didn't have any weapon, he was here as an insurance policy; observe, make sure the task was done properly, and clean the place afterward. But by the end of the night, he would turn into an executioner. 

Her very own executioner. 

Iphigénie had difficulties focusing on the men she had to kill, for the one beside her seemed much more interesting. Who is he? He looked like he had outgrown his body, if that made any sense. His skin didn't seem like his own, these hands belonged to someone else. Iphigénie was sure his heart was screaming to be let out of its cage, it had to be. Who is he? And the arm, she wondered, could he feel anything? 

And the mind; could he feel anything at all? 

"Wait," he said lowly, almost inaudible. His voice was soft, soft, and Iphigénie frowned. He put a metal hand on the rifle, lowering it slowly, before he pointed to three men walking around the deserted building. 

In truth, she couldn't pretend to be attentive about the things happening in the abandoned place below them anymore. No, this person beside her; half machine, half human, was all she cared about at this moment. 

Iphigénie had never seen something like that; it seemed like he had been turned into a weapon and been told to find peace, made into the sharpest sword just to be wielded by the hand of someone else. But surely, he was something more? "Who are you?" she asked in a whisper. 

He looked at her sharply; like she had just said something irreversible, inked in the depth of life, branded forever on his delicate spirit. He opened his mouth, ready to let the words mark the world, but there was a flashing in his eyes; those empty pool of ice, they were ablazed for a second, but the fire extinguished just as fast as it came, and the candle had burned out, drowned by the sea itself. "I am nothing," he said matter-of-fact, "I am no one."

"It can't be true," Iphigénie reasoned, for he was born, breathing, alive. He must be a son, a friend, a lover. Anything but this. "You--, you're here, you're living. You must be someone."

Saying that, Iphigénie realized it could apply to her, too. She was more than a murderer, wasn't she? How did that work? Even when the people who made her a daughter and a sister were gone, was she still one? 

Despite everything, she knew she was more. And it had never been so clear than in this moment. 

The most unexpected words left his lips; easily, like it was a question that had burned his tongue for the longest time, a sentence he had longed to phrase and expose to the living, something tormenting, something terrible. "What proves that I'm alive?"

Then, she looked at him. Really looked at him, like she was seeing him for the very first time. And she could swear she saw something in his cold eyes, hidden behind the colossal waves of blue; a vessel, cursed to wander the sea for eternity, no land in sight. The fire of the living. Iphigénie had stopped looking for it in everyone when her own had vanished on a cold, dreadful night, but it was there, she could almost touch it. 

Before she had the time to even think about it, she did. She did. She reached out, and a gentle hand brushed against harsh metal. Flesh barely grazed him, and he flinched, like there was nothing more excruciating than the touch of someone else. "That," she said, "it proves that you're alive."

 

 

Once Iphigénie was done with the task at hands, she followed the shadow into the building. It was dark, and smelled like something had died long before their arrival. Bodies littered the floor, the echoing sound of water running down a roof could be heard. 

Her fingertips; they used to spread magic, but now, now, as they met the rusted surface of a steel table, it seemed they could only ruin, for the desk crumbled under her hands. Dust flooded the room, like the remains of a collapsed star. 

It was as beautiful as it was heartbreaking, just like the man before her. 

She watched as he kneeled beside a body, standing back up almost immediately. Was it her time already? "Iphigenia was the name of a greek princess," he said in a whisper, back facing her, shoulders tightening, "she died for the crime of another man."

"She--," a breathy laugh came out of her mouth, and she looked at the floor; it was oily and dirty, it was where she would close her eyes for the very last time, "her death was sacrificial."

When he turned to her, it was with a gun in his hand and something close to remorse in his eyes. "Does it make a difference?" he asked, head tilted to the side, genuinely wondering. 

Iphigénie shrugged nonchalantly, "I don't know," she said, because she didn't. She didn't and she wanted to cry. "But," for unfathomable reasons, she choked back a sob, "it was for the greater good." Maybe because it was the end, finally. 

His brows furrowed lightly, his flesh hand grazed the arm of steel, at the place hers had been. "I like this version better."

"Me too."

Everything ends, she thought. The day will come when the sun won't rise, the rain won't fall, the stars won't shine. The earth will collapse and join her sisters in the neverending infinity, becoming a relic made for the eyes but never, ever, for the touch of a loved one. 

Everything fades. The day will come when she'll be nothing but a memory, a skeleton of shattered dreams, unkept promises and unsaid words. One day, this man, both breaker and broken, will be free of himself, liberated from the void slowly eating his insides. He'll be able to put an end to the suffering, she knew it. 

Everything dies. Her day had come, and she was ready. 

Sweet Ulysse, your big sister is coming home. 

Iphigénie breathed in, like it was the first time; as if she had just discovered how good it could feel. The next second, the safety of the gun was off and its barrel was touching her forehead. 

Her eyes met his; the ocean got a glimpse of land, and the Earth was watered.

Again, there was something there, like resentment, but not at her. At himself, at Pierce, at the world. Iphigénie guessed he never got to make small talk with his victims, in fact, she believed he rarely got the authorization to express anything, ever. 

"I'm sorry you got to name the lamb before slitting its throat."

He looked at his hand, holding her fate between its fingers. Then, then, he looked at her like she really was this lamb he had taken in, fed, and cleaned. As if she was something no one but him could know, a secret well kept and a safe place to rest his bones all at once. It was an absurd idea, for they had known each other for half a day. 

But, had he ever known someone for longer than that? 

The man looked at her, and he was sad. 

It was the last thing Iphigénie saw before she was murdered for the second time.


	7. THE LITTLE THINGS

THERE WERE ONLY A FEW THINGS IPHIGÉNIE NEEMO DIDN'T KNOW. 

  How many stars there were in the sky, for starter. Wasn't it a wonder; they were infinite, not a place in the galaxy was free of them, no solar system could cease their propagation. They were here, always. Night and day, never giving up on their watch, forever the protectors of the living things. But the stars were dead. 

  And death was something Iphigénie was well acquainted with. 

They were dead, but still, one would look at them with awe; the fascination for the morbid was a common trait in the human race. It had been this way forever, and would stay the same for as long as they lived. Iphigénie was no exception. 

  She gazed at the skies like she did at herself; captivated by what was dead and somehow still obeying the laws of gravity, enchanted by something that couldn't quite be explained with words. 

But, would one touch death? Would one love death? No, no, only a fool could. 

  Iphigénie had dehumanized herself; it started with dismissing the thought in its entirety, to idolizing it as a whole. There was never an in-between; all or nothing, and it was her doom. 

  She was dead. She had been dead. She used to be dead. She didn't even know anymore. 

  A bullet had entered her skull; it had rested in the depth of her mind, at the very core of her thoughts, and she was still alive. 

Iphigénie wanted to stop the interrogations, for she knew she'll never get an answer. Some things stayed unexplained, and she was one of them. But, no matter what she did, the questions lingered in the back of her mind; untouched. 

  Nothing made sense, anyway. The Earth was a planet suspended in the mid of someone else's sky, she believed. Maybe it was floating; a sphere of chaos. Maybe it was resting on Atlas' shoulders; the doom of a God. If one closed their eyes; the vastness of the universe could be felt, heard, constantly active, alive. But, it didn't make sense. 

  It had been three years since the dreadful day she was murdered. A clean shot to the head was a small mercy for someone like Iphigénie; she had woken up with an aching migraine, the worst feeling coursing through her veins, before throwing up all over the ground. The very same floor she had been so ready to embrace, so eager to vanish on, so keen on falling and never, ever, standing up again. 

  Since then, Iphigénie had some trouble with memory. Nothing big had disappeared, thankfully, but it was the little things. The name of her dog was missing from her mind, the color of her mother's eyes, too. The jokes Ulysse used to make were gone, the warmth of her father's hugs. And the little things were the most important. 

  Her nightmares had changed, too; it wasn't her who took people's lives anymore, but hers, her life, it was taken over and over again. She would wake up with phantom pain; her chest ablaze with the flames of an unseen fire, her throat constricted by invisible hands, her head hurting from the inside, as if something was trying to claw its way out of it. 

  No one was there to comfort her, never. Iphigénie was alone, desperately so, and she had to soothe herself back to sleep every night. 

  That's why she liked working at the darkly hours. Who needs sleep, anyway? Certainly not the girl who couldn't die.

  That's why she was in an obscure appartement, belonging to an individual she was asked to execute. A big sum of money had been offered for the task, and she was deadly silent as she waited for the man to arrive. 

  Who needs the money, anyway? Oh, that's right; the girl who was going to live forever. 

  Iphigénie remained in the shadow until the front door opened. She could tell the man was a secretive one, for he didn't turn the light on, and his steps were inaudible. He didn't see her, though, and started whistling to the rhythm of a song only he could hear. 

  That's what she had turned into; occasional mercenary, periodic assassin, intermittent hitman. When she fully realized she was supposed to be dead, that an actual obituary had been released in a local newspaper, and that everyone was wondering what happened to the little Ulysse; she chose an alternative, something she was good at. 

  Iphigénie had obtained a fake ID, a new driver license and a fresh passport to the name of Sarah Jones. She rented a tiny flat in Baltimore where the only danger came from the eighty-year-old lady living across the hall. 

   Now, though, the danger was her. She decided to make her presence known; she reached for a cup perched on the counter at her side and made it slide to the edge of it. It shattered on the floor and the man swirled around like a tornado; for the hundredth time in her life, she was held at gunpoint. It had become so much of a habit that she didn't even flinch. Iphigénie's hands rose slowly, and she entered the small spot of light coming from the window. "Easy there."

  The eye of the man widen comically, before his weapon was lowered. "Neemo," he sighed, free hand running over his bald head. He put his gun back in its holster, and pointed an accusing finger toward the girl, "You have to stop doing this." 

  She half-smiled, because she didn't know how to do it fully anymore. "Just making sure your skills are still working," and there it was, the half shrug. In truth, everything Iphigénie did now was incomplete; the night her home had been taken away from her, she had felt cut in half and the feeling never wavered. It stayed, anchored in both her body and mind, clinging to her bones like it was afraid of what would happen if it let go. "You're getting old, Nick."

  Nick Fury gazed at her with something close to tenderness in his eye, before the corner of his mouth slowly etched its way into a grin, "How are you doing?" he asked. A gentle hand came up close to her head; a thumb barely had time to graze an uneven patch of skin on her forehead before Iphigénie recoiled. 

  There, that's what made her flinch nowadays. 

Not a gun being pointed at her face nor a bone being broken in two; but the scars. Someone looking at them, someone thinking about it; but the worst was being touched there. 

  Sometimes, she thought about her murderer, her sad and dehumanized murderer; the way he had blanched when her flesh met his arm, how it had been a proof that he was alive, a reminder. She understood now, she understood. "I'm not here to talk about me."

  The pirate huffed out a laugh, "I'm all ears," he said, walking to the kitchen. Iphigénie truly appreciated this man, for he always respected her limits. He was not only hearing her, he listened, carefully, to her every word. "Did you save my life again?" he wondered jokingly as he made some tea. 

  The girl frowned, glancing at the corner she was hiding in a few minutes ago, "I'm not sure," she confessed, biting the inside of her cheek. She moved back to the shadow, and reappeared with a duffle bag in hands; it was heavy, old and it smelled. Something like death. Iphigénie put in on the kitchen bar, eyeing it with apprehension; as if an unbearable truth was about to be revealed. 

  Nick didn't hesitate; he set a cup of boiling water in front of her before he zipped the bag open. "Well," he started, his face impassive. He wasn't the kind of man to be taken by surprise; it happened on occasion, it was rare and more often than not, just an act. But now, he wasn't; as if he knew. "Whose head is this?"

   Iphigénie shook her head slightly, "Someone's who offered a lot of money for yours."

   He sighed, long, deep, and tired. Nick rubbed his chin, before he snorted, "Nice."

   "I don't have many friends, Nick. I'd like if the few I have stayed alive." It was true, Iphigénie didn't bother with people anymore. They were weak; it was not their fault, really, but the world seemed to hate those who couldn't fist fight their way through life, and the girl had already lost too much. 

  Yeah, she didn't have a lot of friends. Two, maybe; the director of a secret spy agency,-- one of the good ones, she hoped,-- and a fierce woman with hair kissed by fire. They could defend themselves, and Iphigénie had one less thing to worry about. 

  But, this situation seemed quite alarming. It wasn't the first time someone had wanted to eliminate Nick from this planet, but it was certainly the only time they had been so demanding. "When whoever sent him realizes he is not coming back," she said, concern in her voice, "they're going to send someone bigger than me."

  The man hummed, lost in his thought. "Are you sure you're not working for me?" he jested, and when the only answer he got was a tilted head and serious eyes, he gave in. "Don't worry about it, kid," but she did, "the person who's going to take me out is not born yet."

  Iphigénie didn't believe him, she had this awful sensation in her stomach; like something was digging in there, crawling its way out. It physically hurt her, as if her ribcage was about to bust wide open, like her insides were growing too big, too fast. 

  But, what could she do? She had learned the hard way nothing was written in stone; no matter how much she wanted to save, no matter how much she believed she could rescue, free, preserve something, it had never ended up like she would have thought. This time around was not different; she wished she could trust Nick and his instinct of self-preservation, but she couldn't risk it. 

  Iphigénie wasn't sure she could survive another loss. Her body could, but would her spirit? 

      "I'll stay around. Just in case."


	8. THE GIRL WHO COULDN’T DIE

  THE GIRL WHO COULDN'T DIE WAS TIRED. 

    The nights were rough for the undeserving, harsh for those with a broken heart and even worse for the lonely ones. They seemed long; a path one would enter at dusk, thinking foolishly their light would come back with the sunrise. People believed the obscurity would be drowned in the colors of the morning; forgotten would be the darkest hours, and triumphant would be the crack of dawn. 

   But, Iphigénie's sky stayed grey; no shades of golden promises could be enough to make her remember the warmth of the sun. Disguised as a dream come true, the days were cold and unforgiving. That was why she favored the darkness; it was an unspeakable truth, certainly, but a truth nonetheless. And she had been fed enough lie for a lifetime, or two. 

   It didn't mean it was any easier; if the bags under her eyes weren't enough of an indication, her slumped shoulders would give her away. If one looked close, they would see the lines life had drawn on her face, and the misery she held over her head. But, it seemed like no one ever looked close enough. 

  Iphigénie was in the hallway leading the her front door; holding her side as if it would collapse if her hand wasn't there, a permanent wince etched on her features, and her right leg a burden she needed to carry. 

  Life was harsh for everyone, and it had taken a peculiar liking for the girl with the broken heart. 

  "Sarah, my darling," a voice interrupted Iphigénie as she was about the put the key in the hole. She turned her head around, and was faced with Dot, her curious but not unkind neighbor. The woman was old, and lived alone since her husband had died; she too had taken a liking to Iphigénie, or maybe the lady just appreciated Sarah, the smiling and happy girl living next door. "Rough night at the hospital?"

  Iphigénie had told her she was a nurse, so she wouldn't have to explain why she came back with blood on her hands seven days of the week. Half turned toward the lady, she forced a smile; but like the universe, it hurt to become. "Yeah," she cleared her throat, eyes looking at anything but Dot, "the ER was a mess." 

  "Oh, poor thing," the woman said with a small smile, as if she knew just how much Iphigénie was hurting inside. "Tomorrow will treat you better, Sarah," she promised and the girl wanted to laugh or cry or both; she didn't know. 

  Maybe it was because of the name. Sarah. Sometimes, Iphigénie thought about her; the soon to be mother who was so mercilessly killed. Jones, too. A man who had been about to become a father, the good friend, the soft and gentle person she used to know. Tomorrow didn't treat them better, in fact, they didn't even get the chance to test the theory. 

  But Iphigénie would have one; a day after today, and another after that, on and on for eternity. She wasn't sure about Dot's words; she had already lived a countless of yesterdays and none of them had been kind to her. "I hope so," she admitted in a whisper, eyes burning with unshed tears, lips trembling from the confession. Another strained smile was send in the lady's way, "Goodnight, Dot." 

   "Goodnight, love. Take care of yourself."

  A small nod from Iphigénie and the encounter was over. She entered her apartment silently, and leaned against the closed door for too long, contemplating the empty space before her; if she focused enough, she could almost visualize Ulysse running up to her, arms spread wide  open and the biggest grin on his face. She could almost smell the pancakes her mother used to make on Sunday mornings. She could almost hear her father's laugh in the kitchen. 

   If she focused enough, she could almost have it all. 

   A sigh escaped the girl as she finally let go of her side. Blood stained her hand crimson, the only color she seemed to see for what it was; an end and a beginning, something terrible but also beautiful. Life and death. A truth and a lie. Everything, all at once. 

  Her loyal roommate, the german shepherd, came into view; wagging tail and hanging tongue. Her dog was always happy to see her come back, and she was always glad to have someone to sleep next to. Iphigénie kissed his head softly, for she was afraid it could be the last time. 

  It was always there; the fear. 

  The fear of living again, the fear of dying again. The terror flowing through her veins when she thought about what could happen if someone knew; the world was full of people with bad intentions and Iphigénie was a rare specimen. Nick knew about her circumstances, Natasha, too. But the distress it caused her to even think about her secret ending up in the wrong hands; it was tiring. 

  There was no rest for the immortals but, was there any for the living?

  The man she had killed tonight had been oblivious to the hitman in the room. He had lived his last moment alone, battling against death itself. He fought well, Iphigénie thought, but it doesn't matter anymore. 

  The girl limped to the bathroom and when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she couldn't recognize herself. What have I become? She was the person she promised herself not to be. She was everything she hated the most in this world and the next. She was a pale imitation of Ivan Vok, the man she had loathed more than words could describe, the person she had killed for who he was, for his deeds and his sins. 

  Her skin was marked with the trials life had put her through, her eyes were hollow because of the things they had witnessed, her mouth had turned into a graveyard from all the words that had died at her lips. Her entire body felt like someone else's, and she wished, she wished, that someday she'll feel at home in this walking corpse. 

  Iphigénie got under the cold water without taking her clothes off, she didn't have the strength to. Maybe she was doomed to live forever, but it felt even more of a curse to feel everything.

  There was a gaping gash into her side and a fractured bone in her leg. With time, she learned the more she got hurt, the more her body got used to it. Not the pain, though, never the pain. But it regenerated faster every time, like her condition evolved. It was still a long process, a painful one, but it got quicker. 

  The bone in her leg was putting itself back together and she could feel every moment of it. It hurt like a bitch. She rested her head against the hard wall; heavy breathing echoed inside the confines of the room, harsh intakes of oxygen were felt in her lungs, like they were used for the first time. Iphigénie's scarred hands came to her eyes, rubbing away invisible tears. 

   Iphigénie stayed like this a moment or two, motionless, the silence for only companion. But the quiet; it had turned on her, and had become the most violent thing. 

  The girl who couldn't die murmured a few words only she could hear; an immuable truth she found difficult to ignore, something hard to look in the eye, an unalterable reality that made her soul weep. 

         Happy birthday, Gen. 

 

 

   Iphigénie spend the next day watching cartoons, the nameless dog by her side and a box of cereals in her hands. Her computer was on the couch next to her, its screen showing a map of D.C as a little red marker was moving along the city's streets. 

  She was sure Nick was aware of the tracker she had put on his coat, and didn't say anything to give her some peace of mind. Two weeks had passed since their nightly encounter, and Iphigénie was agitated. It didn't show, because her body had been killed twice, but her mind was alive and starving. Hungry for retribution and knowledge.

The girl wished she knew more; why the sun died every night so the moon could live, how much pieces of herself she could bear to lose before it would be qualified as a murder, where did love go when people fade, what would have happened if Icarus fell in love with the moon instead, why was life so angry at her. 

  So much questions, but never an answer when it was all she craved to hear. Just empty spaces of endless possibilities. 

   It seemed like there was a pattern in Iphigénie's life, though, one she could try to understand but would never really grasp completely. Death; it had left its mark on her, tainted her soul forever, and tarnished her mind viciously. It happened to her, over and over again, but it was not the most horrifying. 

  No, the most terrible thing was; it happened to the people around her, and she couldn't help but feel like the catalyzer of such a terrible thing. 

   It became even more evident when her computer screen froze, it didn't last long, just enough for a frown to take its place between her brows. Then, the screen crackled a second and two, three, four, before coming back to its original viewpoint, but the girl who had lost too much was already out the door. 

 

 

   "Goddamnit, Nick. Where the hell are you?" Iphigénie muttered angrily, hands on the wheel and eyes desperately searching the street. He wasn't far; the red marker was moving on her phone's screen, slowly and with difficulties, it seemed, but moving all the same. 

   Twilight was close, the streetlamps already illuminating what was left of the day. The girl felt like the end of the world would come with the dark, but she also realized her damaged self got used to dramatize everything. 

   She had followed the tracker to an isolated district; it was like a beacon calling to her, and she could taste hope at the edge of her tongue. "Come on. Come on."

  Then, she saw it. A manhole cover; it was being pushed to the side, at least, someone was trying to. The task required strength, and she wasn't sure Nick was at the best of his abilities at the moment. Iphigénie stopped the car in the middle of this empty street, and ran with difficulties to the sewer opening. She took a hold of the concrete plate; the stitches on her side gave up on her, but when she sighted her friend, it didn't matter much. "Nick," she said, relief flooding through her, because, despite the state he was in, he was alive. He was alive. She could have cried. 

   "Always on time," he grunted as she helped him out of the manhole. It was never so appropriately named, the girl thought bitterly. "You were right," Nick winced when she put his arm around her shoulders, "they send someone bigger."

   Iphigénie walked him to her car; her leg burning as if it was about to explode from the pain, her shirt turning a scarlet color from the loss of blood. They must have looked like zombies for any onlookers, and behind the close gates of her mind, it was exactly what she felt like. "What happened?" she asked as she took her place behind the wheel. 

   "Er--, you know," Nick started in a strained voice, "the usual."

  "I'm not joking, Fury." Obviously, something went south in his everyday life. She knew his job was not the easiest nor the most honest there was out there, but still, the sight was worrisome. 

  "Me neither. Turn left." he instructed her. When she did, the man nodded absentmindedly, looking out the window like one would over their shoulder. "There's a lot I didn't tell you, Neemo."

  "There's a lot I didn't ask, Nick." Iphigénie replied without missing a beat. He hummed and pointed to to a street on their right. The girl took her eyes of the road, eyeing him from head to toe. Her friend was bloody and hurt and tired; everyone in her life seemed to end up like that, one way or another. "And I'm not sure I want to."

One second she wanted to know everything, and the next she needed not to. Her brain worked in a strange way, but it had always a lot to process and analyze, so she couldn't really blame it for the odd and misplaced turns around. 

  "See, that's why I like you. Always saving my ass from God knows what and never asking the wrong questions. You should work for me."

  Iphigénie huffed out a laugh and followed the finger he was waving at an intersection. "Well, you saved my ass first. So, there's that. And," the girl grimaced tightly, both from the physical pain and the memories, "I didn't trade the FBI for another governmental agency."

  "I believe you could work well with a team."

  "I could," she tipped her chin, "but I won't." Not after everything, she wanted to say. Not after both her partners were killed, not after she learned what it felt like to lose and lose and lose and never, ever, getting anything back. 

   Iphigénie was like a broken record, always repeating the same damn thing; the ensuing headache was not far, the nerves were raw and burning, and the want to hit something, anything, was stronger than she remembered to be possible. What do you do of broken record? You put it in the trash, hoping to never see its name again. But, sadly, the girl couldn't do that and would have to live with herself for as long as fate willed it. 

  "Park here," Nick indicated. They were now in front of an average building, where average people lived their average lives. Iphigénie frowned because she had no idea what was hidden inside; because, surely, if Nick Fury wanted to get his way into such a simple place as this one, it meant that there wasn't, in fact, anything simple about it, "and get me inside this apartment."

 

 

  They waited for an eternity in the shadows, so long that the girl felt like they had become the shadow. Dark silhouettes in the obscurity, blending perfectly with the night and its colors, becoming nothing more than shades of blackness, figures no one would dare to look twice. 

Nick had turned the stereo on and slumped into a couch the minute they entered, while Iphigénie had looked for a needle and a thread. She was about to finish suturing her wound when a noise alerted her. Her friend immediately dismissed her worries with two raised fingers. 

  Wait, he was saying, your world is about to get a lot bigger. And it did. It did. 

She stood up from her position near the window, slowly, silently, like the deadly assassin she had been forced to become. But the monster froze when her eyes grazed the man, and it felt like a punch to the guts when she recognized him. 

  Iphigénie had visited the Smithsonian once; after the last person she had loved had been buried by her own hands, after the man she had known for half a day had murdered her. She didn't remember much, for she had been healing from a bullet in the head, but some things were clearer than others. Hydra was the most painful memory, but the man who had taken it down was something else, entirely. 

  Steve Rogers. The man out of time. The first Avenger. The one who never got the chance to live his life. The soldier who won the war but didn't get to go home. 

  Iphigénie watched silently as relief flooded through him at the sight of her friend. Her heart was beating faster than she remembered possible; she had been ready for a lot of things, but Captain America was certainly not one of them. But the man didn't see her, for she was hiding in a dark corner. "I don't remember giving you a key."

  Nick Fury winced audibly as he straightened up, "Your really think I'd need one?" he asked, not unkindly. The men assessed each other; the cautiousness was present, but the respect they held for one another couldn't be mistaken for anything else. "My wife kicked me out."

  "Didn't know you were married."

  "A lot of things you don't know about me," confessed Nick, and Iphigénie almost snorted at the secrecy of her friend. 

"I know, Nick. That's the problem." Steve told him as he turned the light on. The following seconds, the man out of time noticed more things than he wished to. Fury was injured and bloody and he looked worse than Steve had ever seen him; it seemed like he had almost gave up the fight, as if he was already dead. 

  But he wasn't. Not yet. 

  Then, then, Steve saw her; nothing more than a dark figure in the shadows of his home, until she limped a step closer, and two, and three. Their eyes met for the very first time; the blue of the sky on a sunny day met the brown of the earth after torrential rain. 

  There was something compelling about his eyes, and Iphigénie wavered slightly at the raw honesty she found in them; it was something like the truth, and, all at once, the girl wanted to confess her sins, for her slate to be wiped clean of all the shades of red. Because, all of sudden, he made a believer out of her. It had been so long since she last saw that look in someone's eyes; the genuinely good and kind, so kind that it was heartbreaking. It had been so long, she had started to believe there were no more left, but that look, that damn look in his eyes, it wasn't something one could forget, ever. 

  Steve saw so much things at once in her deep and sad, so sad, brown eyes. They held secrets, too much, he thought, way too much to bear alone. There was brutality and anguish and loss and untold stories and the hurt, goddammit, the hurt, like this girl had lived a thousand lives and died a thousand deaths and lost a thousand loves. The man out of time felt himself losing height at the look in her eyes; the misery, the distress, the despair. If only it was that simple. But it wasn't, not at all, because it was far from the only things he found in the depth of her brown pool; warmth, joy, and something like magic.

  They didn't realize, but both of their minds were relentlessly searching for some words; any words would have worked. Because strangers couldn't start a conversation with 'I have missed you' even if there wasn't really anything else to say. 

  "Sorry," Iphigénie told him, and her voice, god, her voice, Steve didn't know if he found it utterly revolting or absolutely enchanting, "I made myself at home." 

She showed him the stitched skin on her ribs and he nodded impercibtly, a frown growing between his brows. His eyes went to her leg for a moment, before coming back to hers, like a magnet, "Who are you?" he asked in a murmur. 

  For the first time in her life, Iphigénie wasn't the one asking that dreadful question, and she realized it might be even worse to be the one answering it. 

  "She's a friend," announced the forgotten voice of Nick Fury. The two gazed at the man in black as he turned the light off. The screen of his phone was turned toward Steve, and he almost felt betrayed when it shown the message "ears everywhere". He faltered visibly, and glanced at the girl on his right briefly when Nick wrote another note; "S.H.I.E.L.D compromised" it said. 

   "Who else knows about your wife?"

The spy stood up with some difficulties, and Iphigénie was at his side in a second; a bony hand on his chest and the other between his shoulder blades. If Steve was surprised by the strange dynamic he was witnessing, he didn't show it, and focused on the screen Nick was showing him instead; "the three of us."

  "Just... my friends," he admitted, giving Steve a meaningful glance. 

"Is that what we are?" Betrayal never comes from your enemy, he thought. 

"That's up to you," was the last thing Iphigénie heard before her skin was splattered by the blood of her friend.


	9. ICARUS

TIME WAS NOTHING BUT A CONCEPT. 

An idea like any other; one that could be bentend and twisted and slowed down. For a moment, everything was normal and life happened to everyone at the most ordinary rate, but the next, it was so unhurried one could see everything happening around them; as if time itself was mocking them. 

The things you wanted to remember for eternity would disappear, fade into nothing more than a blurred image; so close, yet so far, too far from your reach. And the things you desperately needed to forget would remain still, untouched and profoundly vivid; you would relive it constantly, slow motion style. 

It was what Iphigénie felt like the moment a bullet pierced her forearm and lodged itself in the back of her friend. It was painfully slow; she almost felt herself watching the slugs break through the wall, perforating the air like a rocket coming through the atmosphere, entering her epidermis and nerves and bones, she almost had time to hope that her body would act as a shield; but these bullets were on a race, which one of us will get to him first? 

In the end, they all did. 

The girl tried to support the falling body of her friend, in vain. Nick Fury fell to the ground and Iphigénie's legs kneeled on their own accord. It was such a terrible thing to be powerless in the face of death; the girl who would live forever knew a little too much about it. 

One might think that, after losing everything not once or twice, but three times, Iphigénie would be used to it. Death was a distant friend now, an old lover who had made her hope and cry and hate, its fingertips were forever engraved on her golden skin and its depraved thoughts would be etched on her mind for as long as she lived; still, it took her by surprise every single time. 

As Steve Rogers dragged her bleeding friend out of harm way, she cursed the world and the people and whoever the hell was up there; deciding who could live and die with the wave of a hand. Accountability was a stranger to the Gods, while everyone here had to suffer and pay a price way too high for the actions of someone else. 

Iphigénie's mind had closed its gates; her surroundings were nothing more than dark shapes, looking strangely like the monsters hidden in the back of her dreams. Voices turned into distant sounds, white noises in the corner of her brain. Her body was buzzing with adrenaline; shaking limbs and trembling lips, eyes darting around the room, trying to understand how such a thing could have happened. 

Then, she saw it. On the roof of the neighboring building; a glint in the shadow. 

Iphigénie was not in control anymore; her body acted on its own, without asking for permission to her brain first. Steve seemed to understand it, and grabbed her wrist gently, "You're hurt," he said. 

The girl didn't hear him, barely felt his flesh on hers, and tugged her arm back to herself. Before she realized it, she was already running down the fire escape, leaving a concerned boy in her wake. 

Steve wanted to scream at her to come back, for he too, had seen the glint of a dark promise in the shadows of the night, but he didn't know her name. He didn't know her name, and she was already plunging into these dangerous and unknown waters, head first. 

Truth be told, Iphigénie would have done anything to get away from the future, she knew what was coming; it started with a d and ended with its hands ripping her chest apart. Maybe she was a coward, maybe reality was too harsh and unfair for the girl with the broken heart, maybe she was weak. 

For someone who loathed death as much as she, Iphigénie was doing a great job at running after it; to the naked eye, it almost seemed like she was courting it. But the glint; something even her damaged memory couldn't have forgotten. It had put a bullet in her head, and had the saddest eyes she had ever seen and now, now, it had killed the person she trusted the most. 

When her feet touched the ground, a loud crash was heard above her; Steve Rogers had just flung himself through his window to the one of the building next door, and if she wasn't so mad, she would have laugh at the sight. Who does that? 

It was somehow useful, though; since she could hear him bang into walls from the outside, she just had to follow the commotion, knowing the noises would lead her to the half man. So, Iphigénie ran; even if she could have wailed from the pain in her leg. This suffering felt more like a discomfort, compared to the torment she was under after witnessing yet another of her loved ones lose a battle he wasn't even fighting. 

Glass shattered somewhere above her; they were on the roof. Steve had caught up to the man, she knew it. The grunt she heard was all the confirmation she needed; her murderer wasn't the vocal type. 

Iphigénie rounded the corner as the same time he landed on the ground; an odd feeling came over her, déjà vu, most likely, but there was something else, something bitter. She had forgiven him a long time ago; he killed her because he was ordered to, and her life wasn't something she cared much for, anyway. 

But, Nick. Her friend. 

It was hypocritical, for she was doing the same thing every single day. Killing people she didn't know, for money she didn't want. She firmly believed this man was coerced into doing this, one way or another, and she wasn't. But, still. He had fatally harmed the person who had put her broken pieces back together, and Iphigénie was furious. 

Blinded by rage, she threw herself into the lion's den; her fisted hand grazed the muzzle he wore, like a dog, before his was around her wrist.

  Time slowed, once again, when their eyes met; this time around, though, it had nothing to do with the stilled sea clashing with the earth's soil. It was the raging waves at war with the whole damn forest; it was dangerous and wild. 

Iphigénie saw a flash of recognition in there; his brows furrowed imperceptibly, his head slightly tilted to the side. His voice sounded muffled through his muzzle when he asked, "are you a ghost?" and Iphigénie lost it. 

Because, truth be told, she wondered too. 

She freed her arm easily, which caught them both off guard; the next moment, her foot crushed his and her hands flew to his face. Her fists met his ribs and her leg, his knee. Even if she knew he was about to break her in two, Iphigénie felt like she had won an untold battle for turning his silky skin the color purple. 

But, had she forgotten? Death couldn't be killed. 

All at once, the hand of steel stopped her fisted one; the nameless man tightened his hold and the girl felt some of her bones break under the force. 

Steve was still contemplating the shield, his shield, that had been thrown at him with such strength when he heard his stranger grunt in pain. The man out of time ran to the edge of the roof, and cursed the girl for her recklessness. Why is she so hell-bent on dying? was his first though. She's going to die on me, came at the same time. 

He didn't hesitate, though, and jumped to the ground without a logical plan. The superhero landing alerted the two, and when they both stopped to look over their shoulders, Steve found it hard to not comment on the absurdity of the scene; the girl had her arm stuck between gloved fingers, the man had an elbow threatening his windpipe and still, they froze completely at his arrival. It didn't last long, but it was a sight so ridiculous he could have laughed. 

God! Was Tony rubbing off on him? 

Steve's childish thoughts were forgotten when the unknown man regained his composure faster than his stranger; her wrist was freed but an angry booted foot found her chest and hit, hard. Like a rag doll, she was thrown into the brick wall behind her; spine and head knocking into the inflexible surface with a strength that went far beyond measurement. 

Steve watched the girl crumble to the ground with something close to horror in his eyes. That's it, he thought with regret, for he seemed to be always out of time; literally and metaphorically and painfully late for everything; Bucky, Peggy, Nick, his life, and now this girl with the broken look in her eyes. 

He took an automated step toward her before remembering the man left behind. But, when he turned around, ready to shield the weak and the oppressed with his bare body if he had to, he was gone. 

Steve didn't feel any relief as he rushed to the girl. Her movements were slow and heavy, a permanent pained expression was etched on her features. "Hey," he started softly, crouching down at her side and putting his shield on the ground soundlessly, "you're going to be alright, okay?" he told her, not convincing anyone. Both of his hands were hovering over her body; not knowing what to do, fearing to damage even more. 

There was no way she would survive that, Steve already had a hard time believing she was still breathing; her arm was pierced through, her fingers were broken, her spine was certainly crushed in several places, and when she touched the back of her head, her hand came back smeared with blood. Without forgetting the limping leg and fresh stitches on her side; how was she still alive? 

"You're a bad liar," Iphigénie coughed, and it was the most excruciating pain she had felt in a long time. Will I ever rest? she wondered. When is this going to end? 

All of this was her own fault; her foolish self had acted out of anger and impulse and desire to hurt herself more than her opponent. The pain was a torture, but it helped her forget about the man she called a friend laying in a pool of his own blood. 

"I'm going to be fine," she reassured Steve who looked like a lost puppy, roaming the empty streets for a gentle pat on the head; it was as adorable as it was revolting.

"You're a bad liar," he repeated, his lips curling into the faintest smile and his eyes shining with something akin to hope; as if he wished it was the truth. 

Iphigénie found the strength to send an unamused glance his way, but couldn't really bear to look at him longer than a second; in fact, she didn't dare. "Give me a minute."

"Why did you do it?" Steve asked, looking at her like it was the last time; the end of something that hadn't even started. 

"You'll have to be more specific," the girl grunted, her shoulder blades moving uncomfortably against the terrible wall behind her; object of all her misery. 

A strand of her hair was stuck on her lips, and Steve fought the urge to brush it away. He didn't know why he was having such a strong reaction to this girl and everything she was doing, but he did. He did. And she was dying in front of him. "You threw yourself at him like--," he frowned, glancing away from her face, "like you didn't care if you died."

His stranger's head fell back against the solid surface, and he could see it again in her eyes; the magic. As she looked up at the starless sky, the girl was illuminated by the moon, like it shone just for her. For the first time, he noticed an uneven and discolored patch of skin on her forehead and he wondered what her story was; how he'd like to know, how he was running out of time. 

"And you flung yourself through the window," she told him, choosing to ignore his observation, "like Icarus at the sun."

He tried, he really did, but Steve couldn't get his eyes off the dying girl. There were so much questions burning his tongue, so much secrets he needed to hear, so much things he wanted to do. And who would stop him, anyway? The man out of time opened his mouth, ready for whatever would happen next.

But the howl of an ambulance was heard, and Steve almost cursed himself for forgetting about Nick Fury and his gun-wielding neighbor. He glanced at the girl on the ground; she was already looking at him, but he didn't know what he saw in her eyes then. 

He stood up slowly and walked to the corner of the building; people in white were wheeling a stretcher into a vehicle. The blue and red lights made the street look strangely distorted, the shadows never losing their reign on the world. 

And when Steve looked back at the girl, she was gone. Vanished. The only evidence she was ever here, real, was the blood smeared on the bricks. 

The dying girl was gone, and he didn't even know her name.


	10. THE WINTER SOLDIER

HER BODY WAS HURTING EVERYWHERE. 

   The mending process of all broken things was something painful. Repairing what wouldn't, couldn't, or simply didn't want to be fixed was like harvesting the most precious flowers and realizing, too late, that they wouldn't grow anymore. It was like asking the burning wood to root itself back into the earth, to demand to the flooding ocean to drown its mistakes into the depth of the sea, it was like imploring the sun to come back at midnight. 

  But the forest was ablaze, the world was underwater, the moon had swallowed all the warmth, and Iphigénie was the only witness of chaos. 

  It felt like a whole universe was being built inside her; the solar system in her hands, the stars on her skin, the black holes in her mind, it hurt to become. But the big bang was never far, and the girl worried about its imminent implosion. 

  Iphigénie was waiting, desperately so, in front of the hospital; Nick Fury had been brought here a few hours ago and she hoped, she prayed, for her friend's heart to beat. Her bandaged arms were wrapped around the steering wheel of her car, her head between them; to any curious onlookers, the girl looked like she had been the one to be fatally wounded, the coagulated blood seemed etched on her skin like ink on a book; echoes of an unfortunate tale.

  Time was slowly passing by, and Iphigénie's thoughts were assaulted with a name she wished to forget; Alexander Pierce. The man who had ordered her assassin to kill her so long ago; there was little place for doubts in her mind, he was the one behind this whole mess. Who was he? she wondered. And why would he do that? 

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend, she had thought, foolishly, even after her death. At the time, he had wanted to render useless the organisation that had forced Iphigénie to burry what she cherished most; at least, that was what she believed. 

Now, Nick was fighting death on a boxing ring, and all the bets were against him. She should have asked those damn questions. Her friend's secret spy agency had been compromised, and the next second, he too had been reduced to a simple target. How she hated this life. 

  In truth, Iphigénie didn't really know if Nick deserved what he got; in her eyes, he was the friend, but it was painfully transparent that in someone else's, he was the foe. With that thought came a lot of unwanted questions; how many different versions of Nick existed in people's mind. For she knew for a fact that a person couldn't be the same twice in a row; friend, foe, acquaintance, neighbor, and the list never stopped. 

  How many versions of her are there? There was pragmatic and sad Iphigénie, bubbly and smiling Sarah, cold blooded and bitter assassin, furious and reckless fool. And the list never stopped. 

  How many people am I at once? Who am I at heart?

  All she knew for sure was that, in this moment and the next, she was nothing more than the wounded and pathetic girl Steve Rogers had found fighting a war she could never win. 

Iphigénie couldn't get him out of her head; his eyes, how he had looked at her; as if she was deserving of something greater, something good and kind and soft and gentle. If only he knew. 

  The girl hadn't earned it, in fact, she had lost the right to feel happy a long time ago; the good things would only happen in her mind, where they would live as nothing more than an image, a picture too good to be true; a painful reminder of what she couldn't have. And that was what she deserved. 

  Iphigénie felt like a stranger in her own body, a wanderer in her own mind, a roamer in search of a soul, a foreigner to her spirit; and she deserved it. Every second, every minute, every hour she spend in this life she didn't know how to live, it was merited.

  Her mental affliction was interrupted when the right door of her car opened; a body made itself at home next to her own, and Iphigénie straightened up; hissing silently when her back met the leather seat, wincing imperceptibly as her head touched the same surface; her injured hand stayed around the steering wheel, the other going to rub the bloodied skin of her arm. 

  She glanced at the girl next to her; she had hair kissed by fire and her emerald eyes seemed to be burning with the same intensity. The lips Iphigénie didn't dare to stare at for too long were quivering, and she could already taste the grief assaulting her entire being. They didn't need words; Natasha Romanoff shook her head weakly, and the silent question had a response, a finality. 

  Iphigénie's broken hand tightened around the wheel, but the redhead was quick to notice the destructive behavior she had learned to recognize ever since their first encounter; Natasha took Gen's pinky finger into her own, as softly as a lover's touch, for she knew the girl was hurt and damaged beyond repair, in body and mind, and couldn't handle much physical contact. 

Truth be told, Natasha wasn't sure Gen had been touched with anything else but fists and blade and death since they met, and the thought was saddening. 

  Iphigénie breathed in shakily, eyes fixed on an invisible enemy, "What do we do now?" she asked somberly, tiredly, painfully. 

  Both of them watched the outside like a predator would its prey; a dangerous glint in the eye, ready to pounce at any opportunity. Women were dangerous by nature; they were hungry wolves hidden in bodies of silk, the fiercest lionesses disguised as the softest sheep; mouths on skin as a distraction, but teeth sharp and venomous on a jugular; they could kiss a man or slit his throat. And these women, they were out for blood. 

       "We wait."

 

 

   A war was brewing on the horizon, and the warriors were on edge due to the lack of perspectives; the army they were supposed to decimate was missing from the battlefield, the ships coming from the seas were concealed behind a veil of mist, and victory seemed to be an idea one could only graze with their fingertips. 

  Iphigénie was waiting in a dark room for something she wasn't sure was worth the trouble. It seemed to be an habit, though, for the girl to be intertwined with darkness so intimately; she was so used to it, she almost felt at home, while everywhere else failed to do so. 

  Her calloused and scarred hand was holding the handle of a blade, and the injured one was hovering over its sharpened edges. Iphigénie eyed the weapon like it would free her from something far bigger than herself if her flesh ever met its point; sometimes, the girl found herself wondering what she would do if she could die and stay dead. Then, she would remember she had been killed that night, so she would certainly be gone without knowing anything of Ulysse's fate. 

Would she be at peace? Iphigénie didn't know; she didn't know if she wanted to know, she didn't know if it was worth to know. She didn't know anything, and it was driving her crazy. 

But, it shouldn't be. The vicious Ivan Vok was buried six feet under, and she believed the one who had given the order was among the few she had killed herself the night she was murdered for the second time. But, truth be told, she couldn't be sure. 

  Before she had time to connect the dots and realize what she was missing, the door busted open and Natasha was pushed against a wall. Iphigénie hadn't expected to see Steve Rogers again, at least, not in these conditions, and certainly not with anger etched on his features; it was odd on his face, a strange look that didn't quite fit with him, "Where is it?"

  Once again, the soldier didn't see her in the corner of the room. Iphigénie had mastered the art of discretion since the world thought her dead, and had learned how to be invisible with the job she had chosen for herself. 

"Safe," the redhead answered, not faltering at the look in Steve's eyes. Natasha knew he was still accommodating to the twenty first century and its monstrous deceits; it was hard for the boy with the golden heart to be in a time where everyone he used to know was gone, everything he used to love had turned sour, and everything he had believed in was just a facade for treachery. 

  "Do better!" she was trying. 

  "Where did you get it?" Natasha asked him, already knowing the answer. The spy was testing him, even if she knew her trust would rest easy with Steve Rogers, she wanted to see what strategy the soldier had favored. 

  "Why would I tell you?" Suspicious, then. No plan in mind, only a visible distrust for everyone. That should do, Natasha thought. 

  "Fury gave it to you. Why?" she was doubtful about the boy having any more answers than her, but it was worth a try. Both Gen and her had lost too much already; they needed the truth. 

  But Steve wouldn't see it, because he too, had lost something today, "What's on it?"

  "I don't know," Natasha told him truthfully, but when his "stop lying!" was accompanied by a tightening grip around her shoulders, she had to send a look to the shadow behind him; wait, she was saying silently, not now. 

  "I only act like I know everything, Rogers," the spy confessed, more truth in her words than she would ever admit. 

"I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn't you?"

  Natasha shrugged nonchalantly, "Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in, so do you."

  "I'm not gonna ask you again!" The harsh shove against the wall was the last straw, and the next second, the edge of a blade was at the delicate skin of his throat. 

  Instinctively, Steve flinched away; the point of the knife was grazing his skin as a body installed itself between the soldier and the spy. He trembled at the sight before him; it was her. 

"Back off," his stranger said dangerously, but he didn't care. He didn't care. 

  Steve's brows furrowed, and he almost gasped audibly; the dying girl was alive and standing and breathing and threatening him with a murderous weapon. Where did you go? he wanted, needed, to ask. What's your name?

  His brain had difficulties understanding how such a thing was possible, for he was certain she had been dying a few hours ago. And now, now, she had a knife at his throat and was shielding Natasha with her own body. 

Truth be told, he couldn't believe it, and watched the girl whose bravery went far beyond herself with a myriad of emotions he couldn't name. 

  She seems to have a liking for putting herself in the line of fire, Steve thought, almost bitterly; not caring one bit if the worst happened to her, as long as her friends were safe and her foes at her mercy. 

Right now, the boy fell into the latter category and, in all honesty, he didn't have the heart to fight death if she had such a lovely face. 

  Steve's eyes went to Natasha's for a second; the spy had a sly grin adorning her lips, and a raised brow calling for a challenge. He wanted to say something, desperately so, but he didn't know. He didn't know, and his stranger looked ready to pounce. 

  "Gen," the redhead said softly. Steve received the name like a punch in the gut. Gen. His insides tightened around nothing, and his heart started beating faster when Gen nodded gently; her eyes still fixed on him. 

She could have killed him with just a glance, he was sure of that. And when she lowered her blade and turned to her friend, Steve Rogers almost missed the feeling of having her undivided attention. 

I just need to get used to it, he told himself when he realized the foolish intensity of his thoughts for her; get used to these eyes and this face and this name and this story. Only then, after the novelty had turned into a habit, would his feelings calm the hell down. When the enigma before him would be unraveled, the appeal of the unknown would cease; he knew it, and it made him sad. 

  "I know who killed Fury," Natasha interrupted his train of thought; her eyes shone with something knowing and somber. The girl next to him, who was still very much of a stranger, took a sharp intake of breath and looked at her friend with eagerness. The spy glanced between the two of them, "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years."

  Iphigénie had trouble containing herself. "Fifty years?" she said, unbelieving. She never told Natasha about him, in fact, the girl didn't speak about her deaths to anyone; too much pain were linked with those memories, and she didn't have the strength to relive them. But, she felt like now would be a good time to confess. 

  The two other people in the room didn't seem surprise that a septuagenarian, at least that old, that didn't look anything like one, was going around murdering people. Then, Iphigénie remembered Steve Rogers was even older, and that both of them were Avengers; they must have seen stranger things, she thought. 

  "So, he's a ghost story," Steve observed, and Iphigénie's eyes found his face. That was what he had called her; are you a ghost? The Winter Soldier was strangely fitting for such a man; a ruthless specimen who had both the attributes of a cold night of December and a bullet meant to pierce a skull. 

  When Steve's eyes met hers, so honest and raw and full of trust for the world and its people, Iphigénie gulped with difficulty, as if a fist had found itself inside of her throat. Her head turned to Natasha, and her next words were an aching revelation, "It was him."

  The spy understood immediately; her emerald eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a frown found its way between her brows and her lips parted delicately, as if she wanted to say a thousand words but settled only with one, "Fuck."

  "What are you talking about?" asked Steve, confused by the exchange he had just been a witness to, but wanted to be a part of. 

  Iphigénie crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head slightly as she looked at anything but the man out of time. Natasha reached for the blade her friend was squeezing in the palm of her hand, just before it could open bronzed skin and turn it into a bloody mess. 

  The redhead noticed the distress signal Gen was sending her way, and decided to spare her an useless discomfort, "Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran," she explained to Steve, who looked at her friend like she was a rare and fragile flower, "somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there." Two pairs of eyes found hers at the dramatic turn of her story, "I was covering my engineer, so he shot straight through me." The spy's shirt was pulled up, revealing an old scar on the side of her stomach, "Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye bikinis."

  Iphigénie almost snorted at the comment, while Steve eyed her with something akin to amusement, "Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now." 

  There was the beginning of a smile at the corner of the redhead's lips, "Going after him is a dead end. I know. I've tried," Natasha declared, holding a flash drive under Steve's nose. "Like you said, he's a ghost story," she told him, glancing at her silent friend; because, truth be told, Gen's entire existence could be named like that, too. 

  Iphigénie sighed, defeated, "And it cannot be a convincing story if the ghost is not being hunted." 

  Steve watched the women he was, unbeknownst to himself, about to share the adventure of a lifetime with, "Well, let's find out what the ghost wants."


End file.
